The forest stream grumbles as the big rock
Makes it swerve sharply to the right
But is relieved that around the bend
It can flow freely again.
It swirls; over the sand bed the stream made
Where I lie in total stupor
The stream gurgles happily over the little stones and rocks
That cradles me like a foetus in its womb.
I lie, floating, watching my toes peeking out of the water
And my nose, like a periscope
This bloated corpulence slapped
Gently by the ripples of the water.
The sun is clouded out for the moment
I close my eyes in bliss
All I hear are the chuckle of the stream
And the chirping of the Wagtail.
A traveler never forgets
The trees that gave him shade.
A traveler never forgets
The streams that quenched his thirst.
The paths he trod
The winds he rode
The grass he slept
The rocks he leant.
To remember and to be grateful
Is the way of the traveler true.
And –
The trees and streams,
The paths and breeze
The grass and rocks-
They too, will remember him.
As he passes-
In the air-conditioned chill of the office
In the desktop picture of Mount Everest
In passwords like Ganga, Yamuna
Badri, Kailas or Manasarovar -
Leafing, surreptitiously, through the books on treks
To Himalayas and wilderness
Dreaming meandering through
Rhododendrons and snow bound paths-
I imagine the sips of water from my bottle
To be that of the streams in the mountains.
It is really so easy; all I have to do
Is to get up from my seat
Leave the complaining customer
Walk over to the window at the rear of the office
And look up at the skies…
late summer
the water striders jerky strokes
across the stream
This stream
in winter cannot
be crossed —
or only if you
care not where
you come ashore.
Removing hot
boots, we hung them
by laces and crossed
the stone-floored stream
on shocked feet.
Work-weary as we
were, we stopped
to see maple finery
skip past wet knees.
You flow, you do not understand,
The spring has eked you out of the earth.
You fell from the storm, you barely coalesce
Before the journey begins.
A gust of wind from a cloud’s dead eye
Blows you onto the clay of the north.
A pond, where the spawn of a million frogs
Grope in the steam of batrachian suns.
At the end, a hesitant stream.
Gentle, the grass barely parts in your path.
By noon, you lay blind in the sun’s deep maw.
You fear you are the plaything of the world,
A god whose cruelty is your solitude.
You flow, you do not understand,
You cannot feel your strength.
The folly of your winding way.
An empty cup whence the light of passion is drunk !-
To-day a sad rumour passes through the trees,
A chill wind is borne by the stream,
The waves shiver in pain ;
Where now the cicada's song long and hot ?
Bits of song . . . what else?
I, a rider of the stream,
Lone between the clouds.
Oh, my own self in the barge
Laden with the memory of mists,
Gliding down by the life-grey stream.
I am worn out with dreams;
A weather-worn, marble triton
Among the streams;
And all day long I look
Upon this lady's beauty
As though I had found in book
A pictured beauty,
Pleased to have filled the eyes
Or the discerning ears,
Delighted to be but wise,
For men improve with the years;
And yet and yet
Is this my dream, or the truth?
O would that we had met
When I had my burning youth;
But I grow old among dreams,
I have gone back in boyish wonderment
To things that I had foolishly put by....
Have found an alien and unknown content
In seeing how some bits of cloud-filled sky
Are framed in bracken pools; through chuckling hours
Have watched the antic frogs, or curiously
Have numbered all the unnamed, vagrant flowers,
That fleck the unkempt meadows, lavishly.
Or where a headlong toppling stream has stayed
Its racing, lulled to quiet by the song
Bursting from out the thickleaved oaken shade,
There I have lain while hours sauntered past--
I have found peacefulness somewhere at last,
Have found a quiet needed for so long.